


Pulvis et umbra sumus (we are dust and shadow)

by Maygra



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Guilty Dean, M/M, Mind Rape, Night Terrors, Rape, Restraints, Sadism, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 09:46:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1221658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maygra/pseuds/Maygra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not normal - even for me. Torture, Graphic Rape, Objectification, disturbing imagery. Dean/Sam<br/>implied. You have been warned. </p><p>These characters do not belong to me, they belong to Kripke and the CW and I doubt very much they'd approve of this at all.</p><p> </p><p>3,343 words - originally posted 11/07/06</p><p> </p><p>  <i>artwork: Dante and  Virgil in Hell - William Bouguereau  (ca. 1850)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Pulvis et umbra sumus (we are dust and shadow)

It starts again, and Dean pushes and struggles against it, against the ropes binding his wrists to the chair, trying to find give in the knots at his ankles. The chair itself is metal and bolted to the floor, rocking not at all, no matter how he strains or flexes. No matter how long he's kept there, the metal burns cold against his bare skin, like it's been frozen solid. The iciness leeches into his flesh, into his bones and blood. He can almost feel how it clings to him, like the way wet fingers stick to ice; and if he pulls, he swears the ice cold metal is ripping strips of skin from his back, along the underside of his thighs, the welling blood there making the whole thing worse, clinging more, burning with an ice that never melts. 

He can feel the ropes cutting into his wrists, the blood flowing, and keeps praying it will be enough, that enough blood will make his wrists slick enough to pull free, but all it does is add to the prickle and burn of the fibers catching on his abraded skin. 

When the shadows shift in the room, he can't stop the moan that escapes him, the protest, feeling a sob already build in his throat. He wants to close his eyes, wishes he were blindfolded and gagged so he couldn't see, so he couldn't speak or scream, but he does. He does both. He will do both and it won't matter. He can will himself to close his eyes, bite his tongue until he tastes blood, but inevitably both his eyes and his mouth will open, like there's a spell or a compelling, or God help him, he's possessed and being forced to watch this and do nothing. 

He's begged and pleaded. Bargained. _Let it be me. Let it be me...take me..._

But, of course, that's not how this plays out. It's not what's desired or wanted. It's not about breaking him physically, or emotionally. It's never been about him at all. It's always been about Sam. This darkness wants Sam and it will have him and there's not a damn thing Dean can do about it. 

Except witness. That's why he's here. To be the witness. To proclaim the truth. To acknowledge this power that there's no winning against. 

Doesn't matter that the shadow hides its face. Ubiquitous darkness. Sam would love that...Sam would call it that just to make Dean laugh, to take the horror out of it, if he could. 

But he can't. And unlike Dean, he is blinded and gagged. Almost like an afterthought, like the shadows already know Sam will scream, that he won't be able to help himself. That his eyes will run with tears and it doesn't need to see that either. It doesn't want to possess Sam, it wants to break him -- it wants to break him to the point where he will invite it in, just to get it to stop. 

It's not ropes that it uses to bind Sam; it's metal shackles, inscriptions painted on the dull black surface in Sam's own blood, symbols that move and flare while Sam bleeds and screams behind his gag. There's clamps on his legs as well, just behind his knees, forcing him to kneel, wide spread. His arms stretched tight and taut over his head to the point where any more pressure, any movement too sharp, is likely to dislocate his shoulders or his hips; snap his spine if he's kicked just right. 

Sam's skin is clean again, washed free of the blood Dean's seen before, the cuts and burns and bruises faded or wiped away. It's unblemished and familiar, still tanned and smooth, muscles tight and hard under skin Dean had bathed when Sam was a child and had touched with reverence only hours before. 

Dean tries to tell him that he's here, that Sam's not alone, but he's not sure it actually helps Sam to know that. To know that Dean is so close but unable to stop this, to stop the horrors about to be played out on Sam's skin, on his body. 

It never starts out as horror, never with pain. It starts with reverence, or something like it. A fierce mockery of the touches Dean's laid on Sam's skin; the gentle strokes along this throat, cool lips pressed to the taut muscles there. Hands that don't claw, massaging Sam's wrists where the shackles hold him secure. Touches gentle and feather light, enough to make Sam twitch and shiver, ticklish along the softer, paler flesh of his forearms, to the thin skin at his elbows. Shadow darkened hands rub and caress, drag the barest edges of nails along sensitive skin from wrist to shoulder and back again, laying phantom kisses along Sam's flesh until his breathing is fast and shallow. 

Feather traces up his spine, long uninterrupted contact that make the muscles in Sam's chest and shoulder contract, ripple, and shiver. Repeated along his sides, so lightly it's like no touch at all, but it leaves a flush on his skin, color painting itself onto his cheeks, and down his chest, pleasure and arousal sending heat through him despite the involuntary trembling. If he could speak he'd be whispering now, saying Dean's name, reaching back for him. Body and will responding to touches the way Sam never does to words. Blood fills Sam's dick, lifts it away from his body and Dean wants to scream at him, pulls harder at his bonds to reach him, tearing flesh and feeling muscle burn, even as his own body reacts to Sam being put on display, knowing touches making his flesh and muscles dance, teasing out the flush to his skin, the soft panting little moans and whimpers that usually make Dean's pulse race and his heart pound -- that trigger an equal response in his own body. But this isn't done for Sam's pleasure or for Dean's, this a darkness taking apart Sam's defenses, teasing him into a response and state of trained reaction like some exotic trained animal or some erotic showpiece. 

Sometime else, anyplace else and Dean would want to watch this, to see this, be the one to do this. The way those hands move over his brother, know him. How they know to scrape nails through the soft hairs under his arm and to nuzzle there, where Sam's rich, heady scent is strongest. It know that Sam's nipples are sensitive, almost painfully so, that you have to take care to touch them lightly, delicately, for it to be more pleasure than pain. That once those small buds have grown swollen, the pinch of fingers or the touch of lips will make Sam whimper and gasp. It knows both these things, repetition and trial making it sure, toying with one dark rose-brown nipple while dragging dark fingers along the pale skin of Sam's hip, where waist meets leg. 

Behind his gag, Sam's making noises, protests, Dean thinks. They are breathy and uneven, muffled groans, and choked gasps when his nipple is pinched too hard, pinched and held until he flinches, tries to jerk away only to find his movement limited by bindings and the unyielding darkness at his back. When the discomfort becomes too much his erection flags and the shadow lets go, trails the dark hands down Sam's torso to his pelvis, the curved claws raking at the tender flesh of his hips; not enough to tear skin, only to leave thin welts of red. Narrow fingers enclose Sam's dick; black on blood-flushed red, stroking him, urging him to regain the hardness he's lost. Occasionally a rake of a sharp nail that makes Sam hiss and jerk. The "no," behind his gag is more distinct. 

"Leave him alone...leave him alone, please...please..." Dean will beg. He'll bargain and threaten, because this is where it starts, with these little pricks of pain, laced in and out of long strokes of pleasure, played on Sam's body with intricate precision. Taking him to the edge when his hips jerk under the milking of his dick, the light touches along his back and spreading over his ass. The pass of an unseen tongue along his throat and up and around his ear. Sam quivers as every nerve is drawn tight, as every inch of skin is touched and assessed, made sensitive and aware. He shudders and thrusts into nothing, and the muffled sound on his lips Dean knows is his name. He's close enough to smell Sam's sweat, to feel the heat of him, but too far away, too bound to touch him. Sam's fully aroused now, dick hard and leaking, the flush spreading from throat to belly, thighs quivering in the need to move and flex. Sam whimpers when the shadow hand traces a long line of pressure from under his balls to between his legs and sweat breaks on his body, rivulets of it making silvery lines along his chest, soaking into his hair, rolling then beading across his belly to hang like gems in dark pubic hair. 

Dean's own body betrays him, and he bites back a whimper of his own when his dick rises; pulls up, the ice cold of the chair releasing him. Feels the sensitive skin of his dick peel back, knows the trickle of heat along its length is blood, not come. 

He's sure the shadow chuckles, only it sounds like the rasp of old bones, clacking and harsh. It strokes Sam, harder, teasing him, urging him until Sam shudders and heaves, ejaculating suddenly, hot come spattering over Dean's thighs, his belly. The scent of it is strong, heady, and familiar. It cools quickly though, sliding across Dean's skin, wasted and untouched, untasted. 

The gag makes it hard for Sam to catch his breath, to take a deeper one, the added strain of being stretched so tight making his muscles jump and twitch in spasm. But he's so sensitive right now, his body reacts to the lightest touch; the stroke of metal long his temple. 

It's Dean's turn to whimper. The muzzle of the gun gleams dully, the sheen only a result of oil applied to iron. Sam's so out of it, it takes him a moment to realize the touch is different, that it's even less human than before. Dean can see in his body, in the way Sam tenses and goes still. If he weren't blindfolded, his eyes would be wide, wary. 

"Don't do this...please. Don't. Don't _don'tdon'tdon't,_ " Dean says like he always does. He can't help it. His plea will be ignored, it always is... 

The barrel of the gun retraces all those paths dark fingers did earlier, scraping along Sam's arms, along his spine, then up along his ribs. The barrel is long, cold, the wood grip gleams. It's as deadly and familiar as the shadow itself. Dean doesn't know how the darkness got hold of the Colt. How it got it away from their father, what promises it made, but he can guess -- knows his father would never have made such a deal if this were the result he saw. 

What Dean knows is that the Demon has it, that there is one bullet left. Just one and while it is meant to kill demons and darkness, the bullet will dig its way through human flesh and bone just as easily. Can tear through skin, scatter fragments of iron and steel through muscle. He wants to throw up when the shadow uses the nubbed site on the tip to tease Sam's nipple again, a less gentle echo of the earlier caress. Protests again when the open end of the gun is pressed over that bud of flesh and pressed hard, twisted, digging into Sam's skin, rough edge leaving tiny scrapes that well up with bright beads of blood. First blood. 

There is a slow drag of a claw there, a blackened nail, deepening the tiny cut and Sam jerks only to go still again when the gun is pressed under his jaw, forced into his chin. He chokes when the fingers dig deep enough that blood actually flows rather than merely spotting. Whimpers and jerks and bites back a muffled scream as those claws dig deeper opening four gashes, parallel lines drawn at an angle just under his left breast, deeper toward his sternum and the blood wells, flows and overflows, filling the gashes below and the spilling further down, streaking Sam's skin, making a slow path down his torso, over his stomach and getting caught in the groove of his hip. 

It drags the gun down along the center of Sam's chest, leaving a pale red line as the metal digs into his skin, rising up again to catch more blood, fresh smears staining Sam's belly. 

The first of the blood finds it way along Sam's hip, flowing across his pelvis, the color lost in the darkness of the hair there until the first drop makes it way far enough down to fall, a splash of crimson on the floor between Sam's spread knees. The second drop finds its way faster and it becomes a steady drip, a tiny pool of Sam's blood forming beneath him. 

Dean strains forward, pulling, feeling the ache in his back as he tries again to break free, to do something. 

The barrel of the gun rubs along Sam's flaccid dick, lifting the soft flesh and stroking it and Sam's breathing becomes harsh, fear and pain edging him toward panic. He jerks again and the metal at his wrists rattles as the barrel of the gun is slipped between his legs, rubbed up under his balls. 

There's another splash of blood, further back and Dean can only stare as the blood starting to streak Sam's arms from where he's been trying to get his hands free. The shadow is whispering to Sam now, in a low harsh voice, words that Dean can't understand but he understands the shake of Sam's head, the muffled, _"no, no, no..."_ that the gag can't disguise. 

The darkness reaches up and grips Sam's hair, jerking his head back sharply, hard enough to make him choke again, to force him to swallow, bowing his body against his restraints. 

Sam's scream is no less piercing for being trapped behind the gag as the barrel of the Colt is shoved into him, the oiled finish hardly enough to ease the way. 

"Nooononononono!" Dean can scream with Sam as the gun is cocked, the sound louder than the blood pounding in his ears, louder than the sobs escaping Sam as his body is violated by the thing meant to save them, save him. The shadow is ruthless and hard, driving the barrel again and again into Sam's ass until there is blood trickling and streaking along his thighs, dripping to join the blood from his chest, from his wrists. 

Dean can taste it, the bitter, hard metal flavor of it on his tongue, in the back of his throat. 

It goes on until Sam goes limp, bleeding freely, head dropping forward heavily when it lets go of his hair, when it drops the gun on the floor, the metal wet and glistening and tinted red, the wooden stock darker still, Sam's blood filling in the grooves of the carved in pentacle. 

The claws dig into Sam's hips again and he sways from the movement, only to be yanked back harshly, the metal of his restraints cutting harshly into unresisting flesh. The metal rattles wetly, bright raindops of blood spatter, and the gashes open and close like obscene mouths, spitting blood as the shadow fucks Sam, shoves him forward until his legs are bleeding too from the metal cutting into his calves, and the hard stone scraping the flesh from his knees and calves. 

It's not enough that Sam can't feel this, that he's unconscious, that he doesn't know this thing would probably fuck him if he were dead as easily as it does when he's senseless. 

This part isn't about Sam, this part is for Dean, the shadow once more mimicking touches and caresses along Sam's skin in a parody of the tenderness Dean offers his brother. When it finally reaches whatever limit even shadows have, it pulls back, dripping blood and something else -- its own filth, what passes for its come -- on the floor beneath Sam, mixing with his blood. 

It's claws rake down Sam's chest, opening more bloody furrows in his flesh from shoulder to hip, along Sam's sides until he's tiger-striped with gashes, deep and long The tan of Sam's skin fades to pale then disappears under a fresh wash of blood...blood that flows and falls and pools, the puddle of it spreading and Dean can only watch, horrified as it moves out, spreads until he can feel it against his toes, the warm stickiness of actually offsetting the cold that's settled into his own blood. 

The shadow moves through it, spreading it, smearing it, standing in front of Dean, staring down at him. It pushes its own darkness away like a cloak, lets it fall just like cloth into the growing pool of blood. 

He doesn't want to look, doesn't want to see. He already knows what's there...who waits in the shadows. Who whispers in Sam's ear, strips him of his defenses, leaves him bare and broken. 

His own face grins back at him, blood on his hands, smeared across his chest, at his mouth. Sam's flesh dangles from his fingernails like stripped paint and his dick is covered in Sam's blood, still hard and erect. He leans down, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, fingers slick with Sam's blood, pushing warmth into Dean skin. 

"You make this so much easier for me," he says, tilting his head, offering a familiar smirk. "He keeps thinking he'll know, that he'll be able to tell...he thought he could. Was ready to pull the trigger and you stopped him. You. Master Demon hunter, Champion of all that is Good and Just...sacrificing your brother to save your father and all the while ...fucking him. Telling him you love him, getting him to trust you... When he falls -- and he will -- just remember you were the one that dug the trap, you were the bait and the betrayal all in one. And when I have him, fully and completely..." 

He leans into himself, broad smile on his blood-painted lips. "When I'm fucking him every night, every day, sending him out to do my bidding, whoring him out to whatever power has need of him, it will never be quite as bad as the fact that he'll know his own brother fucked him over for no other reason than because he was scared of being left alone." 

He backs up and wipes his hand over his dick, smears the fluid, foul and mixed with blood, across Dean's forehead in a rough cross, then across his lips and on his chest. "You've protected him from everyone but yourself. Now he has no protection at all." He says and step back, pulls the gag from Sam's mouth and presses a bloody kiss to his pale lax, lips. "See you soon, Sammy," he says and fades. 

Dean is free then, kneeling on the floor himself staring up at Sam's bloodied body, sees where the darkness has carved his name into Sam's skin. 

He can't reach the manacles. He doesn't have any way to free Sam's legs. 

"Sam...Sam... please. Forgive me, I'm sorry." He closes his eyes and tries to stop the bleeding, but Sam's blood pours over his hands, stains his skin. 

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry..._

"Shhh. It's okay...it's just a dream...It's okay, Dean." 

It's still dark, but not...not ubiquitous. There are shadows, the shift of light as the curtains move under the air conditioning, the sound of distant cars on the highway. Sam's face is above him, light from outside the hotel room leaving his skin silver. His hands are warm where they rub Dean's arm up to his shoulder. He's not blindfolded or gagged. There's no blood. 

"Sam." 

"Yeah. I'm here. You had a bad dream," Sam says quietly, voice warm. "You want to talk about it?" 

"No. It's just...no," Dean says, swallowing as the rest of it fades. 

"Okay," Sam says, not pushing, but he leans down and Dean closes his eyes again, opening his mouth to Sam's as helplessly as a baby, taking in the warm, sweet, blood-free taste of him. Feeling the solid strength of him. 

The Colt is is still missing. Sam is here, unhurt, unmarked. 

Sam slides back down, lying on his side, curving an arm around Dean's chest, breathing warm and steady on his shoulder. 

Dean stares into the darkness, and waits for it to fade.  


end 

+++++ 

11/07/06  



End file.
